


(I've Got) Everything That You Want

by james_winston



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Drinking, Drunk Sex, Hair-pulling, Hamburg Era, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Period-Typical Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-02 06:55:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14539107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/james_winston/pseuds/james_winston
Summary: He was just getting comfortable when John broke the silence, and in a sombre tone said, "Paul."Paul just grunted.It went quiet again for a few seconds, and then, "I'm definitely half-queer."





	(I've Got) Everything That You Want

_"You go and get him,"_ George'd said, _"he'll only be around the corner,"_ George'd said, _"he'll not listen to me,"_ George'd said.

Fuck George.

Paul had trudged through the drizzling rain to call into every lousy dive within a mile of the club and John wasn't in any of them, and no one had even vaguely recognised Paul's description of, "tall-ish lad, brown hair, probably making a complete fucking pillock of himself." And now, well now he was in the wrong end of St. Pauli - okay, so every end of St. Pauli was the wrong end, but this was the _wrong'un_ end - Paul was pretty sure he'd just passed an alley with two fellas in drag fucking each other.

The thing is, he wouldn't have bothered coming here at all if John hadn't mentioned going "fag-hunting" one night, looking for a queer to "mess around with" he'd said, rough him up for a bit of a laugh. Of course, John had been off his head on prellies at the time, but John was also fairly likely to be off his head on prellies _now_ , so it was up to Paul to save his temperamental arse and drag him off whatever poor sod he'd decided was queer enough.

He groaned to himself when he saw the barely flashing neon sign for the next bar on his route. It was very obviously a drag bar, and he debated not even going in, if John was doing to grab someone to bash he'd get them in the alley. Surely. Someone wolf-whistled in Paul's general direction and he looked around to glare, but whoever it was had turned their back. He lifted the collar of his leather jacket anyway, ducking his head to cover his face. Fuck it. Paul glanced up and down the damp street, as if everyone passing by would suddenly stop to look at him and peg it to a phone box to tell everyone back home he was going into a queer bar. He sighed and dropped his shoulders, _lets have it._

He stepped through the doorway, into a very small, very crowded bar, with a few booths along one wall and tables and chairs everywhere else. The stage at the back was currently empty, but lit, and some corny muzak was playing from somewhere as he meandered through the crowd. There seemed to be curtains hanging from the walls, God knows why, because the building was terraced. There was a cloying smell of smoke, sweat, and women's perfume and the sounds around him seemed muted. He squinted his eyes in a bid to see if John was there and turned his head to listen for John's irritatingly familiar voice. If he was drunk he'd be as easy to hear as a fucking atomic bomb.

Suddenly there were two hands on his shoulders and a puff of smoke directly into his face. He swung around, ready to punch the idiot, when the idiot's face came into focus. "Macca! What's a boy like you doing in a place like this, eh?"

"What do you think I'm doing here? Looking for you, you - "

Was John wearing make-up? "Are you wearing make up?" Paul blurted, and lifted his hand as if to rub John's face, before catching the gesture and jamming his hand in his jacket pocket.

"Aye, some bird put it on me earlier," he sort of stumbled on the spot and re-grabbed Paul's shoulders to steady himself. "M'not really sure it was a bird to be honest," he said, with a drunken leer.

Paul rolled his eyes, "Nah mate, probably wasn't a bird in a place like this."

John looked happily confused for a second before shouting, "Oh, it's a queer bar!"

A few angry German mutterings could be heard around them but John seemed oblivious. There were vague traces of red lipstick smeared on his lips, and whoever it was had put something black around his eyes, and some powder on his face. He looked a mess, a fucking drunken mess, _and_ they had to be on stage in about five minutes, but Paul shoved any questions about why the fuck John was here when he obviously wasn't beating up any queers to the back of his mind and plucked his hands from his shoulders.

"Yeah, let's go mate, we've got a whole set to do."

"What? No! Not tonight!"

"Uh, yes, tonight, right now in fact, let's go."

"But you only just got here!" John protested, looking as bereft as he could in his current state. Fucking hell, there was no way he was going to last five hours on stage. Paul swung John's arm over his shoulders and began to forcibly remove him from the back of the bar. He only managed to make it halfway when he was stopped by a burly, bearded man in a corset and skirt. His chest was covered in hair and he seemed to be wearing work boots on his feet, it was a piss poor attempt at being a woman if you asked Paul.

"John! Wohin gehst du?" and then, looking at Paul and smirking, "Wer ist...dein Freund?"

"He's going to work," Paul replied, just as John said, "Paul. He's not queer like us though," with a wink and a snort, sending a wave of beery breath into Paul's face. Next time he was sending George.

" _Queer like us,_ " Paul mocked under his breath.

"I'm definitely queer now, Paul," John asserted, as Paul continued lugging him through the bar.

"Okay, just wait until we hit the fresh air and you sober up, yeah? Then we can tell the lads."

"Not telling the lads nothin'," John said stubbornly, knocking his fist into Paul's chest.

They emerged onto the cobbled street and Paul paused to readjust his grip, halfheartedly replying, "Okay, whatever you want mate," while propping John against the brick wall of the building.

John laughed again, a harsh laugh, "You don't know what I want."

"Sure, John," Paul dismissed, “Have you got a tissue?” John just looked at him, eyes jumping around his face as if he’d find one up Paul’s nose. Paul growled and bent down to slip his shoe off, “You owe me a sock,” he said, hopping around and yanking it off before stuffing his bare foot back into the boot, skin sticking to leather and making him cringe. “Don’t fall over,” he said, pushing John harder against the wall. Thankfully, it’s not hard to find open water in northern Europe, and Paul bent to dab his sock in the nearest puddle before wringing it out and bringing it back to scrub at the shit on John’s face.

“Euh, Jesus, is that –“ he sputtered as Paul rubbed at the lipstick, “your sock? That’s fucking wrong.”

_What’s wrong,_  Paul thought, _is having to clean make-up off your best mate’s face_ , but Paul didn't have time to open that can of dog shit just yet.

After what felt like the remains of Paul’s youth had passed, John’s face had been rubbed a deep red but all the make-up had more or less come off, and Paul picked his arm up and started dragging him again. They barely made it ten yards, though, before Paul could tell there was someone following them. “This fucking night,” he muttered to himself, "John, I need you to hurry it up a bit, some fella's definitely looking for a fight right behind us."

John suddenly seemed to regain command of his limbs and stood bolt upright, turning around and looking for the man in question, before blindly shouting, "Oi! Dickhead!" _For fuck's sake_ , Paul could feel their measly wages being docked for every lost minute. "The fuck do you want?"

The man just strolled right up to them and Paul braced himself. He was taller than both of them, well built with cropped hair, and Paul was surprised when spoke with an American accent.

"Brits then?"

"The fuck do you want?" John repeated.

Paul intervened, "Look mate, we're just heading home alright? Whatever he's done, he's sorry, _I'm_ sorry, but we gotta go."

The man laughed and patted Paul's shoulder, leaving his hand there as he spoke, "Ya haven't done nothin', I was just lookin' for some company."

"Uh, well, we're playing at the Star Club in - well, right now actually, if you want to join us?" Anything to keep this freak show moving.

John burst out laughing again, and the Yank was smiling at him like you would a child and Paul was feeling more and more out of his depth, had he definitely not taken any prellies?

"I was thinking somewhere less public."

Paul was just about to explain that trying to perform a gig _"somewhere less public"_ wasn't going to get them to the Royal Variety when the guy stepped in even closer and ran his hand down Paul's arm, closing his fingers around his wrist. "You've gotta be the prettiest lookin' guy I ever seen."

Paul consciously slid back a step. He didn't know what to do or say, he’d never had a man actually try to put the moves on him before, men would give him looks, sure, but even queer guys didn't just up and stroke his arm in public. Some sort of previous experience might have helped him get out of this situation more gracefully, because so far all he was doing was gawping like a washed-up fish. John seemed to know what to do though, and in a split second he lunged out of nowhere, a fast, angry blur, saying nothing, instead just charging at the poor guy, rugby tackling him to the ground and immediately punching him in the face.

This, _this_ , he had previous experience of and he managed to recover himself enough to get a hold of John, "Jesus Christ! Get off him, John, get -" he grabbed him under his arms, almost getting an elbow in the stomach for his troubles, and heaved him up, not quite pulling him to his feet but dragging him onto his arse on the wet cobbles. In typical Hamburg fashion, not one passerby stopped to look, only a few of them glancing over quickly and carrying on. This wasn't exactly the area you wanted to be picked up by the police in.

"Fucking faggot," John spat, picking himself up. Paul kept a hold on his arm just in case.

The American just lay there, chuckling, before also standing up and punching John clean in the face, "Jealousy's a sin ya know," he said cryptically, before winking at Paul and walking away. What the fuck? If they weren't running late for their own gig Paul might have taken a moment to reflect on how much more bother his life was with John in it, but lucky for both of them, he never had fucking time any more.

"Can you believe that prick?" John said to Paul, incredulous.

Paul just shoved him, "You're more trouble than you're fucking worth, Lennon."

"He started it! The creep! He called you a faggot, Paul, that's disgusting," he was cupping his soon-to-be bruised jaw and looking balefully to Paul as though he could undo it.

"If you're going to thump every dickhead who calls me a faggot I've got a list as long as your gran's tits, just ignore them."

"Ignore them thinking you take it up the arse?" 

He'd definitely had enough of this, "Yes," he said, affecting a limp wrist and cocking a hip, raising his voice to declare, "because I'm obviously not, _darling_."

John just looked at him, like a confused animal watching his owner have sex. 

"Oh, just get a fucking move on, Lennon," he sighed, turning his back to start walking again, not caring if John was following.

\---

Things were weird between the two of them after that night. At first Paul thought it was the drunken confession of being queer that was keeping John away, but John had said much stupider things than that when he'd been drunk - like that time he said he wanted to stab a prostitute. Or that he'd quite like to be stabbed himself. Or that time he said he wished he'd been born a woman. Or that time he vividly described having a wank as a woman. John was an erratic drunk, the consummate art student, always bizarre and unpredictable, but he'd never blanked Paul afterwards like he was doing now. It was so out of character it had taken Paul a few days to realise John had intentionally stopped talking to him - hadn't really been looking at him either - but it was when John dragged a third mic on stage one night that Paul knew something was up. Couldn't even stand next to him for a couple of songs, the wanker.

Paul would have started a fight over it, but to be honest, just being in Hamburg took enough of Paul's energy and a fight with John would have brought more trouble than it was worth.

\---

The second time it happened Paul was so drunk John could have thrown him in the Elbe and he'd have thought it was a party. The whole lot of them had started on the night out, George, Stu, Klaus, Astrid, Jurgen, even Pete, the human embodiment of a damp dish cloth, had been there to start with. But as was inevitable, they’d all splintered off into various couples and groups, looking for different beer and different women, in any order they could get them. John had grabbed Paul away from the remains of the stragglers and dragged him off down an alley that connected to another very brightly lit street. Paul thought drunkenly that it looked familiar but was cut short in his musings when he stumbled off the curb and into John.

"Jesus, Macca, how much have you had?"

Paul snickered, "A lot."

"Idiot," John said affectionately, grabbing him round the waist and helping him down the busy street, into another alley, and then into a bar.

"Yes," Paul said, sloppily nodding his head, "more."

John let out a bark of laughter as he folded Paul into a booth and put both hands on his shoulders, "Right, sit there, I'll be back with the beers."

"Right," Paul said, "Sit here."

As soon as John was gone he turned and put his back to the side of the booth and after only one failed attempt he propped his feet up too, lying almost horizontal. He began stroking the wall distractedly with one hand, it was a very soft wall, not like other walls at all. Very soft. He let his head loll onto the back of the booth and looked unseeingly at the bar around him. Very red. Very dark. Very fam - the queer bar. Paul's head shot up at the realisation, making his brain spin inside his skull and briefly scattering his thoughts. The gay bar. With the drag queens. Why the fuck were they here? And where the fuck was everyone else? As if knowing he would have to answer to Paul, John arrived carrying the beers, slamming the glasses onto the table hard enough for some of them to slosh over the edges.

Paul turned to him and concentrated on putting his serious face on, "This is a queer bar, John." John just looked at him and carried on drinking. "John. It's full of queers."

"Shut up and drink your beer, Paul, it's the cheapest in Hamburg," he dismissed with a smirk, though he seemed uncomfortable in a way Paul couldn't put a finger on. Paul probably couldn't put his finger on anything right now though.

He eyed John suspiciously and then pointed at him, "You're up to something, Lennon, I know it. I'm drunk. But I know it."

Feeling like he'd gained some control over the situation again, Paul did as he was told and drank his beer. Begrudgingly, he began to enjoy himself, John had clearly made friends during his last visit, and before long a small group of them had joined them in the booth, hemming them in together, arm to arm, leg to leg. John was very warm. The whole place was fucking warm, and now Paul was squished so close to John and...Philip, or whatever the fuck his name was, that he couldn't take his jacket off. He was half way out of it, collar stretched around his elbows when John eventually turned away from one of the queen's stories and looked him up and down.

"Jesus Christ, Paul."

Paul slumped, "I can't get it off, I'm too warm."

John just grabbed the shoulder that was closest to him and pushed, turning Paul so his back was to him and began yanking the jacket off, eventually freeing Paul from his moist prison and turning him around again.

"There, don't say I never do nothin' for ya," he said, with a slap to Paul's shoulder.

Philip, the queer next to Paul laughed softly, and put his hand on Paul's shoulder, "He is very nice."

Paul frowned at him, or at least he hoped that's what his face was doing, if he was being honest he was just straining muscles and hoping for the best, "Uh, yeah."

"Has he..." Paul waited patiently for...Philip to finish his sentence but it didn't seem to be coming.

"Has he what?" Paul urged.

"Me and John, we talk."

"Oh," Paul nodded, "Yeah, me and John talk too." Paul turned to look at John, to try and give him a "what's up with this guy?" look, but John was standing up and moving out of the booth, shouting about needing a piss, so Paul turned back to the queer and smiled shortly.

"Me and John like to talk about you," he clarified.

"Yeah," Paul agreed, before realising what he'd just said and backtracking, "Me? What the fuck's he been saying? That fucker, he's a lying bastard is John, don't listen to a fucking word he says," he slurred angrily, his scouse accent slipping out more than usual. The man looked like he was about to interrupt but Paul barreled on, determined to have his side heard, "If it's about Theresa Young he's a fuckin' liar, I didn't touch Theresa Young. I only saw her once! And she was with her friends! How could I fuck her in front of her friends!" He couldn't, is the answer, and he hadn't, John had started that rumour because he was a knobhead, and because everyone knew no one would ever fuck Theresa Young. 

The man, who, now Paul is squinting at him, he actually thinks is called Freddie, puts three fingers over Paul's lips to stop him. "He did not talk about girls," he clarified, removing his fingers but still staring into Paul's eyes. Freddie was intense. He was older than them by about ten years and had dark stubble along his jaw, he had quite broad, muscled shoulders, not at all what a queer should look like, Paul thought. If Paul saw him out on the street he wouldn't even know he was a fag, which is odd, because you should be able to spot them. Paul stared back at him, determined to assert his dominance as a man and not look away first. He'd read that that's what you were supposed to with dogs to let them know you were in charge. Freddie probably wasn't the same as a dog but it was a matter of pride now.

"He talked about you," Freddie said, like Paul was slow or something. What a bellend.

"So?" Paul spat, "He talks about me all the time, him and fucking Stuart, they're never done talking about me, whether I'm there or not."

"Yes!" Freddie perked up, slamming a hand down on Paul's shoulder, "Stuart!" Oh great, another fan of the fucking prick. "John likes him very much," he said with a weird smile.

As if summoned by his name, John re-emerged at the table and began nudging his way back into the booth to squeeze in beside Paul. "What have I missed then? Watch your hands, Fred." Freddie held them up in a gesture of complete innocence and Paul frowned. Freddie hadn't been touching him up, Freddie was a nice man. Except for liking Stuart.

"I have not done a thing, only talking, about Stuart."

John's eyes went sharp, and his lip quirked. He licked his lips and Paul felt very uncomfortable all of a sudden, as if someone had turned the temperature in the room up by five degrees. He shifted and ran a hand through his hair, staring determinedly at his pint. John looked right at him, Paul glanced up and caught his eye and immediately refocused so hard on the pint that it split into two pints, both as hazy as the other. Still smirking, John leaned into him and, as if he'd been waiting his whole life to say it, he whispered against Paul's ear, "Did he tell you I fucked him?"

Paul couldn't have helped it even if he was sober, but his mouth dropped open, he was pretty sure he choked on a bit of his spit or his tongue or something.

"Oh," John said, feigning surprise and leaning back again, "He didn't?"

Paul still couldn't say anything, could only look John in the eye and hope to see a punchline there, lying in wait to make itself obvious, a joke Paul was too fucking drunk to understand. He let out a forced laugh and took a couple of gulps from his pint for something to do with his hands. He drank so quickly he dribbled some down his chin and he hurriedly wiped the suds away with the back of his hand before rubbing it on his jeans. As if the temperature had gotten too hot for him as well, Freddie got up and left, fumbling his way out of the booth and gesturing to the other three men who'd been drinking with them, who also got up and left. Paul kind of wanted to go with them.

He chugged from his drink again and sat it down, nearly empty now, and grabbed his jacket from behind his back, "Should we..." he trailed off, gesturing to the group that had just left.

"Nah, let's have another."

"Aw come on, I'm pissed as a fart, John."

John looked at him hovering awkwardly and nodded, "Fine, but let me finish this first," he said, lifting his half empty pint.

"Yeah, yeah sure," - why the fuck was he agreeing to stay? He needed to get out, his t-shirt was strangling him now and he pulled on it just to make sure he could breathe. Something was going to happen and he could feel it, but he couldn't stop it. He sat back down and slid away from John, putting a foot of space between them. "So I fuck one bloke  and now you can't sit beside me, eh?"

"You didn't fuck Stuart, John, stop carrying on," he said, with more conviction than he felt.

"I did. Twice," John said, now looking into the club, presumably seeing nothing but dark moving blobs.

"John..." But he didn't know what to say next, his tongue was about four sizes too big for his mouth and his brain was swimming in a thousand pints of beer.

"What, Paul?" he asked, still not looking at him.

"I don't fucking know!" Paul shouted, drawing attention from the small table across from them.

"Come on, Paul," he goaded, "You got something to say then say it."

"Are you - y'know," Christ he couldn't think.

"A fag? I don't know." Paul looked at him incredulously, he hoped. "I'd fuck a bird right now if you gave me one," he elaborated, "But I'd fuck a bloke as well. A good looking bloke, mind, my dick's got some standards."

Paul snorted, "Not if you're fucking Stu, it doesn't."

"Don't be jealous, Paul."

"Fuck you, what the fuck, John? What the fuck is this about? I'm too drunk for this, whatever it is I don't get it."

"It's not a joke."

"You're a fucking joke, mate," he snapped, grabbing his coat and crawling out of the booth as gracefully as he could manage before wobbling off through the bar and into the street. He stopped, trying to get his bearings because he was pretty sure this wasn't how they'd gotten in, John had obviously used the back entrance instead. Back entrance, he let out a barked, "Ha!" before stumbling down the street, cursing his heavy feet. After taking only two wrong turns he made it the whole way back to the club without looking back for John, who, unlike Paul, was sober enough to make it back without any hassle. He pulled himself angrily onto his top bunk, throwing his jeans onto the floor with a dramatic thwap and rolling himself into his blanket.

\---

This time, John didn't skirt around Paul. If anything it was the opposite, he kept staring at Paul, smirking at him. He'd been slinging more and more arms around Stu's shoulders, even once grabbing him from behind by the hips and making exaggerated kissing noises, to the amusement of everyone but Paul. Even sober Paul couldn't understand what the fuck had happened that night at the bar. He'd been drunk when he got there and got drunker as the night wore on. It had been a good time, hectic, muddled, but it a laugh nonetheless. Until it got heavy out of nowhere, Paul can still remember the feeling even now, the claggy air, the need to just get out. And why? So John had fucked Stu, they'd all speculated on it at one drunken point or another, they lived together for fuck's sake, and they only had one mattress. And Paul always said Stu was a fucking faggot anyway so what was the big deal?

The only way to get any real answers would be to speak to John, and he wasn't ever going to do that, because what if it had just been a joke, a big long prolonged prank on Paul, he'd probably roped Stu in on it and all, told him to play along any time Paul was looking. Yeah, that was definitely John's style. This whole trip to Hamburg, and the months before had been one long quest to wind Paul up. All the verbal sparring that seemed to have come out of nowhere, all the dead arms and headlocks, all the flirting with Paul's dates right in front of Paul. Yeah, a fucking joke, you're a fucking joke, Paul, he thought.

\---

Exactly a week after the drag bar escapade Paul, John, Jurgen, Stu, Astrid and Klaus were gathered around a table at the club. They'd started drinking early and if Paul hadn't been half pacing himself he'd have been on the floor by now. John, however, had no such problem, he was getting loud and lary, even by his own standards, and one sailor had nearly knocked him on his arse after he'd made a grabbing motion at his date's tits in front of him. It wasn't until John started turning on Jurgen of all people - quiet, agreeable Jurgen - that Paul took matters into his own hands and lugged him up by the armpits to drag him to bed. He guided him through the bar from behind with a firm hand pressed to the centre of his back, and he must have been drunk because he didn't bother fighting against him or making a dramatic show that he was being kidnapped, he just walked quietly up the stairs, only making a sound to swear at the top step, which was slightly higher than the others and caught them all out every damn time. Paul pushed him into their room and down onto his bottom bunk, he kneeled in front of him, trying to help him take off his shoes, which were always tightly laced, "in case ya gotta run like fuck", until John grabbed his wrist.

"Come sit with me, Macca."

"No, come on, I want to go back downstairs, because unlike some people," he said, whilst tugging on the stupid shoe with a huff, "I haven't drunk myself fucking spastic."

"No," John laughed, grabbing the other wrist that was trying to one-handedly undo the stupid laces with, "Stay with Johnny." He kept pulling Paul until he was up on the bed, half on top of him and almost ear to ear, and said in a low voice, "Stay. Stay." He squeezed his wrists in time with his pleas, as if it would make them more potent. Paul sighed and hung his head. He wasn't that keen on going back down only to be excluded from all the chat anyway, and a drunk John could be very persistent.

"Fine," he agreed, "I can't be arsed drinking any more anyway. But you can take your own fucking shoes off," he said, with a kick to John's ankles. He made to stand up but John pulled him back down, until he was lying on John's chest, both pairs of feet hanging off the edge of the bed. "Knock it off, John."

"Make me, Paul." Paul put a knee between John's legs to lever himself up but John held firm to his wrists tugging him back down. Paul suddenly got that same feeling he'd gotten at the drag club, the feeling of warm air squeezing around him and a certain crawling on his skin.

"I'm serious, John, let me go."

"Make me, Paulie," he teased, in a voice Paul had never heard directed at him.

"John, let go," he said, making a serious effort to free his wrists now, but John had strength and gravity on his side and he wasn't going anywhere without kneeing John in the balls, and he wasn't about to fight dirty yet. He tugged one last time and then flopped down beside him, lying on his side with his back to the wall, wrists still encased in John's hands. John smiled brightly at him and lifted his own feet onto the bed, shoes and all. He turned his head on the pillow a few times and then closed his eyes with a sigh. "You're taking the piss."

Without opening his eyes John replied, "Hmm?"

"I'm not staying here, my own bed's two feet away," Paul exclaimed, just a few decibels short of shouting.

"It's also two wrists away, and you haven't got any of those free at the minute."

Paul kicked him in the shin and pulled at his wrists again, if only on principle. Fine. He'd stay until John went to sleep. Maybe he just needed the company. John got like that sometimes, it wasn't unheard of for John to crawl into Paul's bed when they were sharing a room. He'd once woken up to John completely on top of him and thought he was dying because he couldn't breathe or move. He was just getting comfortable when John broke the silence and in a sombre tone said, "Paul."

Paul just grunted.

It went quiet again for a few seconds, and then, "I'm definitely half-queer."

There it was. Everything Paul had been hoping to avoid, everything Paul had hoped John wouldn't say and mean, wouldn't insist on what should have just been a joke, a fad, a passing way of annoying Paul or the band as a whole, another Lennonian ploy for attention. Now what was there to do? He very quickly realised he didn't care if John was bent, it didn't matter, it was still John, he wouldn't suddenly lose all ability to sing and play and write and just decide to make a living wearing women's clothes and taking it up the arse. He was still the same dickhead he'd always been, as he was fucking demonstrating tonight. Maybe waiting until he had Paul captive in his bed to announce it was a bit strange, but _John's_ a bit strange. John also has infamous, and no doubt intentional, bad timing. So, nothing had changed and nothing would change.

Paul sighed, "Yeah."

"You believe me now?" John asked, lifting his head of the pillow to look at Paul.

"Yeah," Paul assured him, turning to look him in the eye. If he was being honest, he'd believed John the first time, in the club, for reasons that would probably remain unknown to everyone. "But so help me if this is a joke, Lennon. I'll kill you, I'll shoot you like a dog in the street."

John released his wrists, "You can hit me if you want, you get one free punch."

Paul let out a frustrated puff, "I don't want to fucking punch you, you dickhead. Who gives a shit? I've seen some crap in my time, you doing a fella up the arse would be the least of it."

John laughed, laughed so hard he pulled his knees up slightly, and just as he was simmering down he started all over again. By the third round he had Paul joining in and all, curled into each other laughing pent up tears over nothing. Paul finally threw a hand over John's mouth, "Stop, stop it, please, I can't anymore, my stomach hurts." John bit his hand in retaliation and Paul punched his chest, causing John to launch into a fit of melodramatic hacking coughs. When he settled down Paul made to get up off the bed, they'd had their little heart to heart or whatever the fuck it was, his assistance was no longer required and he wasn't sure he could keep his eyes open for much longer anyway.

He didn't get further than his hands and knees, trying to contort himself over John's body and out of the crowded bunk before John was grabbing his wrist again. "Where're you goin'?"

"Bed," he mumbled through a yawn. "Stay here."

"John there's no room, not even to top and tail."

John grabbed Paul the hair and yanked him down, "Just fucking stay here Paul for fuck's sake."

"Ow! Jesus John, what's your fucking problem?" Paul was just about pull John's hand out of his hair and push him off his own damn bed when John rolled onto his side and on top of Paul and slammed their mouths together in an unfamiliar kiss. Paul definitely wasn't as surprised by this turn of events as he should have been, maybe it was the few drinks he'd had smoothing the way, but there was no profound shock. It wasn't exactly nice, or bad, beyond John's stinking breath, it was just...a kiss.

Eventually Paul's compliance was a shock enough in itself that he tried to push John off. Both of his hands were now tangled in Paul's hair, and both of his legs were between Paul's, leaving him in a pretty compromising position. "Uh, John - " John just tightened the fist in Paul's hair to the point of pain and Paul winced, giving John just the time he needed to shove his tongue back into Paul's mouth. He brought his knees up, trying to dig them into John's chest, and he grabbed John's fingers in his hair, trying to untangle them. Why John continued to kiss him when Paul wasn't responding was beyond him, how was this doing it for him? He wrenched his head to the side, probably losing a clump of hair in the process. "John, stop, stop," he panted. John rested his forehead on Paul's, with his eyes closed. "John, mate, what are you doing?"

John exhaled, "I don't...I don't care."

"I don't think - "

"If you didn't want it you wouldn't be here."

"You took me by surprise!" Because he had, and Paul definitely...probably, wasn't turned on by any of it, and hopefully John wasn't either, but he wasn't confident enough to look for himself. "George and Pete could come back any minute," was what came out of his mouth, and he felt like bashing his own brain in.

John opened his eyes then, lifting his head back so he wouldn't go cross-eyed. He looked and looked at Paul, who refused to take part in the silent conversation John was having. He smiled, released Paul's hair and got up off the bed. Paul sagged in relief, relief from what part of the whole situation he didn't know, but he sank what felt like a foot into the bed. He was relieved, of course he was, who wouldn't be? That's what you were when men stopped kissing you, relieved. He ignored whatever shape his dick was taking in his jeans as he reach to readjust himself. Dicks liked everything, you can't judge what you like by what your dick likes. He only moved to lift his head up when he heard John thumping about near the door. He was going to ask him what the fuck he was doing now until he saw him grab the wooden door jamb and shove it under the door, kicking it repeatedly with his foot and then trying to pull the door open, gesturing victoriously to Paul when it didn't budge.

"What..." Was all the sentence Paul managed to form by the time John had gotten back on the bed, in between Paul's legs, with his mouth an inch from his. He yanked Paul's hair again - and that was about to get really fucking annoying really fucking quickly - and said, "Paul. Come on."

"I don't...I don't..."

"Don't what? Don't want to? Don't know what to do? Does it matter? Just give it a fucking go Paul, don't be so fucking uptight for once in your fucking life." He tugged his hair to emphasise his point. "I bet you're lying there now, best mate on top of you thinking, _'Oh but what would Jim think? He would be so disappointed!'_ Grow up, Paul, it's not all about your, Dad."

"Shut up," Paul hadn't been thinking about his Dad at all, which shows how much John fucking knows. Jesus, should he be thinking about his Dad? Jim definitely wouldn’t be impressed by his son having it off with another man, and the thought of his Dad ever finding out made him distantly terrified. But Jim wasn't in this room tonight, he wasn't anywhere near Paul, had never felt further from him, and Paul would be lying to if he didn't feel just a little bit freer at the thought.

"It doesn't make you a fag, Paul, I'm not asking to stick it up you. Was it fucking queer when we sat in your room and tossed off to Brigitte Bardot? Was it fucking queer when all the lads sat round and did it?"

"That's not the -"

"It's exactly the fucking same, Paul, don't overthink it."

Before Paul could stop it, before he could think better of it, he blurted, "What about you and Stu?”

He averted his eyes straight away, talk about showing your whole fucking hand. He waited for John to laugh in his face, to make a joke at his expense and call him a jealous woman, but John was silent for so long Paul nearly tried to get up and leave. He foggily remembered John's confession at the queer bar, that John had _fucked_ Stuart, more than once, but he needed to hear it again, part of him wanted to hear it over and over again.

"Yeah," John croaked, answering the unasked question and sounding surprisingly unsure in himself.

"Twice?"

John tugged his hair again, though it was less of a tug, and more a gentle pull from his fingers clenching. "Yeah."

"Was...Was it..." _Good?_

"Yeah."

"Yeah?"

"I don't want to talk about Stu."

Paul snorted, "That's fucking new."

John kissed him brutally in retaliation, biting so hard on his lip Paul wouldn't be surprised if he was bleeding. "Mind your fucking teeth, mate," he spat out.

"That's what Stu said," John spat back.

It took Paul longer than it should have to process the exact meaning of the words but when the penny dropped, "Eugh, John, that's fucking - "

"Sexy? You're right, it was. Who'da thunk it Paul?" he said sarcastically, "Me, sucking a dick."

"Don't - don't say that," because Paul's dick was going to get ideas Paul didn't want to follow up on. 

"Why not? You asked first. You wanted to know all about what me and Stu got up to," this time he shifted decisively between Paul's legs, spreading his knees and pushing his hips down onto Paul's. They were both hard, obviously hard, Paul's dick wasn't even trying to pretend it wasn't interested. He jerked his own hips up in automatic response, totally out of his control, rubbing them together through their jeans and groaning. 

"Yeah, but not Stu - " he gasped, his breath was short, he was sweating and panting. He wasn't like this with girls, he was much better than this, he never lost control of his dick or his hips with girls. 

"What's wrong with Stu, Paul? He looks like James Dean. If it wasn't for Astrid we'd probably still be fucking each other."

"He's a fucking cunt."

"Yeah?" John smirked, "I happen to like - " But Paul had had enough and cut him off with a harsh kiss, one he took charge of this time, shoving his tongue in John's mouth almost before he stopped speaking. He was so occupied with kissing John - kissing John which only got even weirder and better as it went on - that he didn't realise why John had stopped fighting back until he felt his belt buckle being pulled apart. He watched as John undid both their belts and unbuttoned their jeans, and he wanted to tell him to stop, rubbing up against each other in their jeans was one thing but having another man's hand toss you off was another fucking game all together.

He got as far as, "John -" before John's hand wrapped around his dick and started stroking, stopping after a few seconds to pull his hand out and spit on it before shoving it back in and starting again. "Oh, God," John was good at this, but whether it was from doing it with Stu or just wanking alone in his bedroom five times a day Paul couldn't tell. He shut his eyes and bit his lip to stop any more awkward sounds coming out, every stroke of John's hand felt like it was going to be the one that made him come.

"Paul, Jesus, you have no idea."

Paul tried not to respond but John started grinding down onto his thigh and Paul could feel his dick rubbing against him, and eventually he gave up and moaned, which made John gasp out, "Fuck, _fuck_." He could feel his orgasm building quickly, and he didn't think he could hold it off if he wanted to, his thoughts were too scattered and he couldn't think of enough disgusting images for long enough before John'd bite his shoulder or lick his neck or pull his hair. His hand was pumping his dick in a perfect rhythm, it was like a machine, one that was in his head and new what he wanted before he wanted it, "John, I'm - " he assumed you should warn a guy just like you'd warn a girl, and especially if it was your friend you were about to come on, but full sentences were beyond him right now. John's hand sped up - fuck, yes - and then seemed to inexplicably slow down.

"Tell me you like it."

Paul's eyes shot open, "What?"

"Tell me you like me wanking you off," John was smirking at him again, only brushing his knuckles against his dick. Paul took a minute to orientate himself away, dragging his eyes back in to focus on John's.

"Seriously? Now?" he rubbed his eyes with his hands, trying to reset the scene, "You're such a fucking arsehole, Lennon," he swore, pushing his hips up, in the hopes that John's hand and his dick were magnetic. They weren't though, because John ran just the tip of a finger along it instead. Paul's body didn't seem to know what to do and he slapped John's hand away entirely before forcing out, "If I didn't like it would I be this fucking hard?"

That seemed to be enough for John, thank god. He got back to work like he was being paid for it, and Paul had suddenly never been less angry with John in his whole life as his toes curled, his thighs tensed, and come spurted out onto his stomach. It took him longer than usual to get his wits together again and to realise that John hadn't come yet. He suddenly blushed - because after your best mates given you a hand-job is the best time to be embarrassed, obviously. He didn't know what to do now, he should offer one back, but how...what... John seemed to read his mind for him though and grabbed his hand, sliding it into his pants and cupping it around his dick.

"Just like it's your own," is all he said, before bringing his mouth to Paul's again and running his tongue along his lips, demanding another kiss. He should probably have spat on his hand like John had done just to ease the way, but the sweat on his palms and the fluid from his dick would have to do because if he pulled his hand out now he might not put it back in again. He tried to do exactly what John had done, twisting his hand up and down, keeping a steady rhythm so he could focus on anything but the stupid, inevitable consequences of it all. Eventually John got too close to concentrate on kissing and pulled back, eyes closed, panting into Paul's open mouth. With fresh air circulating in his brain his own arousal hit him again, his dick was definitely trying to get hard again. "Fuck," because that's all there was to say, wanking John off shouldn't be doing this to him. Paul liked this, he thought. He definitely didn't hate it. He was fascinated by John's reactions and between kisses would sneak glances at his stomach, contracting and stretching when he moved, his collarbones, his neck, his wild hair. The whole picture was captivating and for all he wished to never see himself like this, he wished he had a film camera to capture John.

"Jesus, Paul, don't stop, faster," John groaned, interrupting his thoughts to thrust his hips. Paul watched him come with both a rush of heat and a strange sense of detachment. He watched his dick, not his face, as his come shot out over Paul’s stomach and t-shirt, the sensation of it hitting his skin sending little jolts up his spine through his neck. John rolled off him to the side again, panting, but not making words. A blessing, because Paul probably wouldn't have words until the morning. He lay there until John seemed to have recovered, not sure if he should just get up and clean himself off, pretend like it was no big deal.

“Smoke?” John offered, scrambling clumsily off the bed and poking around in his jacket until he found his cigs and a lighter. He climbed back over Paul and sat up, staring down at him, his gaze getting stuck on Paul’s midriff. Oh, shit. He sat up too, pulling his t-shirt over his head and wiping away John’s come – _John’s come_ – before stuffing it between the springs and the mattress. John’s mess, John can fucking deal with it.

“That’s hot as fuck you know,” he said, lighting his fag and handing one to Paul.

Paul looked confusedly around himself, “What? The clean up?”

“You, with my come on you, having to clean it off.”

Paul felt like his whole body turned red at once, “Oh, piss off.”

John just smirked at him and patted his knee, leaving his hand there, and leaving Paul to wonder whether that was his cue to hold it. John didn't seem like the hand-holding half-queer type but Paul didn't know anymore. His hand stayed there, un-held, for another fag and a half, before there was a thud on the door - the almost comedic sound of someone being forced into it after expecting it to open. Another thud followed, then another, and then, “Open the fucking door! I don’t care where your dick is!” They both snorted, _yeah, you probably would mate,_ and John patted his thigh before getting up to let George in, and Paul staggered into his own bunk.

“Did you fucking hear me?”

“Givvus a fucking second, the door’s stuck!” he shouted, bending over to try and pull the wedge loose. He fell backward when it came out, a mumbled, “bastard” as his arse hit the cement, and stood up to grab the handle.

He turned to Paul before he twisted it, one last second of the moment, with a soft smirk, “Same time next week?”

**Author's Note:**

> I hate this fic and I have no idea what I'm doing.


End file.
